


You Move or You Die

by lonelywalker



Category: Warrior (2011)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy's trying to get his life back together after Sparta. Brendan gives him a helpful shove in the direction of Frank Campana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Move or You Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strifechaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strifechaos/gifts).



There was something beautiful about a gym after hours, when all the equipment was neatly stacked away and the empty ring was lit only by the greenish tinge of the emergency exit signs. Ghosts wandered the corridors at that time of night, and perhaps Tommy Conlon was one of them. He dropped his military-issue duffel bag to the floor and sat down on it in the half-darkness, head in his hands as he listened – couldn’t help but listen – to the strains of classical music coming from somewhere else in the building.

He had known almost nothing about Frank Campana before the Sparta tournament, and about the same by the time it was over. But Brendan had devised some sort of social rehabilitation program for him once the Marine Corps finished kicking him in the nuts, and Campana seemed to be an ever-present part of that. 

They’d run into each other at the girls’ birthday parties, outdoing each other at just how in tune they could be with the interests of the little Conlon princesses. They’d wound up at the same Saturday afternoon barbecues on Brendan’s lawn, because Brendan was now a secure member of middle class suburbia _and_ a minor celebrity, and both of those apparently entailed lots of hamburger-flipping on the weekend for the benefit of his friends and neighbors. Tommy had clicked with the girls instantly, was polite to Tess, but found himself lost amid a world of small talk about the weather and local sports and whatever idiotic policies were being enacted in Washington…

He certainly hadn’t admired Campana immediately – the guy seemed to be too slick and glossy for his own good – but he’d envied the way Campana could effortlessly break into any conversation with a grin and be welcomed with backpats and smiles.

On one occasion, Brendan had seen him looking: “You should talk to him. He could give you some pointers.”

Tommy had shaken his head, swallowed down another gulp of beer from the bottle. “I don’t need any pointers.”

“Maybe not on fighting, but there’s more to life than that. You want to fight, Frank can help get you to the right places, so you’re not brawling with high schoolers in a parking lot. You want to coach, Frank’s the guy to ask about that too.”

Brendan was precisely the type of guy all of those suburban homeowners would want to teach their kids: calm and reasonable, with all the right answers. Of course, the fact that Brendan could also snap bones and take out punk kids with one punch was probably a bonus.

“Not interested in either of those things. I’m done.”

“Yeah? Well, you could also just say ‘hello’ once in a while. It’s a thought.”

A week later, after Tommy had mentioned that he wanted to start earning some money and paying for his room and board, Brendan had pointed to the Help Wanted ads in the newspaper – short-order cooks, sales clerks, tech support. “Or,” he said, “I hear Frank might need someone for a few hours a day.”

Caught between his desire to earn his keep and his general lack of marketable skills, Tommy had finally looked up the address of the gym.

After tolerating ten minutes of Campana’s music, Tommy got to his feet, picked up his bag, and went to find the source. Around the corner from the usual set of heavy bags and speed bags, away from the ring where the contenders could prove their mettle, was a pool of light in which Frank Campana, stripped down to shorts and gloves, was working out.

“Thought you didn’t fight anymore.” Tommy leaned against the wall, arms folded.

All credit to him, Campana didn’t jump or shriek or throw anything. “I don’t,” he called out over the music and the thud-thud of his fists against the heavy bag. “But I have to be in decent shape for sparring.”

“You’re in better than decent shape.” Tommy moved closer, if only to find out how to shut off that awful music. “I checked you out on YouTube. You’ve got moves.”

“I’ve got more moves than you’ll ever figure out.” Campana circled the bag, keeping Tommy in his line of sight. “Looking to sign up here? I can give you a good deal. It’s always good to have genuine athletes working out. Gives the kids something to aspire to.”

“You aren’t good enough?”

“I’m incredible, man, but look at those traps on you. Wow-ee.”

Tommy found the stereo, but his gaze was caught by the photographs on the wall – teenagers and college-age kids, mostly, lots of ethnic minorities and tattoos. Lots of smiles. “Brendan said you’re looking for some help.”

The punches stopped. Campana looked round the bag at him. “Seriously? You want to do janitorial work?”

“If that’s what you’re paying me for.”

“Well, sure, but I should probably tell you there’s a lot of kids pretty desperate for cash who gave this gig one look and blew it off. You’d be amazed how much shit can get over a locker room, and I’m being literal here.”

“No problem.”

“And we’ve got a huge storage room that’s a complete mess. Just been cramming stuff in there for years. Everything from old dumbbells to kitchen supplies. It all needs to be sorted, arranged, fixed if necessary…”

Tommy nodded. “I’ll start now.”

“It’s some seriously heavy stuff. And there’s air vents… I don’t know what might’ve died in there over the winter…”

“You want me to do it or not?”

“Sure. But you can come back in daylight hours like everyone else, we’ll get the paperwork filed, and then mi casa es su casa, and all my garbage is your garbage, okay?” Campana tore away the fastenings of his gloves. “You might want to leave the music on. If anyone needs to relax, it’s you.”

Tommy shot him a look. “Relaxation isn’t what I need. And if it was, this wouldn’t be the way to get it.”

“What you need to do is breathe. You’re so tense you’re working against yourself. Never mind what sort of damage all that cortisol does over your lifetime, you’re probably going to give yourself an aneurysm just standing there.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Campana leaned back against the wall beside the photos, looking him up and down. “I’m glad you’re getting things together, Tommy. Brendan’s made a pretty good life for himself. We all come out of bad places, but we don’t have to stay in them.”

“I don’t need motivational speeches either.” But there was some nugget of truth in there, something that reminded him he didn’t have to push away absolutely everyone who wanted to help him. Was it weakness to accept a hand held out in friendship? Tommy drew in a breath, let it out. “Really, though, why no more fighting?”

Campana smiled and tapped a finger to the scar on his cheek. “This one nearly took out my eye. The idea of hospital bills and rehab didn’t so much appeal. And now that I have this place, I’ve got to think about more than myself. In the cage you gotta do anything to win, that’s your only aim, it’s just you versus the other guy. But right now I’m working with three, four top guys who could make a career of this, plus any number of kids who just need a positive way to let off steam. It’s not all about winning for me anymore.”

Tommy took a step closer to get a better look at that scar in the light. “A fist did that?”

“A fist that sent me headfirst into a broken section of fence. Had me spitting out paint shards for a week.” Campana smiled again, and even with the scar and the well-trained, gym-swollen muscles he didn’t seem formidable. Whenever Tommy smiled it felt forced and probably looked that way too. But could he ever relax and grin and have fashionably unruly hair like Frank Campana? It was probably about as likely as being able to run a business like this, as being a superstar trainer with women circling him like hungry hounds…

Tommy had never been the brightest student in the classes he’d actually attended. He was never the quickest study. But whenever he knew something, he _knew_ it: communications procedures, tank specifications, the best way to get out of an elbow lock, and the fact that in all the months they’d known each other, Frank Campana had never brought a date to any of Brendan’s parties.

Of course, Tommy had never brought one either.

He tore his eyes away from Campana’s face. “Lemme ask you something. My brother ever try to set you up with someone?”

Campana laughed. “Ain’t it the way? He finds domestic bliss and he has to inflict it on the rest of us. But yeah, a few times. Nice girls, you know. Real nice girls. But I had to tell him he was wasting their time on me.” He stopped, hesitated. Tommy met his eyes. “So then your brother, modern man that he is, started suggesting I ask out this art teacher he knows… Cute guy, but I mean, art teacher? Not really my type.”

“Says the man playing Beethoven with too much gel in his hair.”

“Hey, that’s _Vivaldi_ , you uncultured oaf…” Campana – Frank – stopped himself again, and Tommy felt himself being looked at, appraised, as if he was back in boot camp being dismissed as too small, too skinny, too much of a weakling to ever amount to anything. Years of training, tattoos, and packing on muscle hadn’t done much to make that feeling go away. 

Frank tilted his head. “You said Brendan told you to come here. At this time?”

“Yeah… didn’t want to disturb you at work, you know.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

Tommy reached out to brush his thumb over Frank’s cheek, feeling the ridge of the scar. A bad wound, and much worse just an inch or two higher. As it was… it was kind of nice to have a good excuse to touch his too-pretty face, flushed with heat and smeared with sweat.

“He must be crazy to think either of us has anything to do with domestic bliss,” Frank said.

“Totally cuckoo,” Tommy nodded and kissed him, Frank smiling against his lips, sliding fingers through Tommy’s hair.

In his admittedly limited experience with men, even a kiss had been a struggle for dominance, the tearing off of clothes a display of strength. Who would be pushed onto his knees? Who would be rolled over and fucked hard? Usually there’d been a time factor too, a fear of discovery on the marine base, or a simple lack of interest in staying too long in a seedy motel room. 

But here they were, no one else around, nowhere else to be, and Frank was kissing him as though kissing was enough, as though it was everything. Tommy badly wanted to lean into him, slipping a foot behind his ankles and pounding him down onto the floor. But he thought about breathing instead, thought about the way Frank was breathing as their tongues touched and their bodies pressed closer.

He’d felt hard dicks through shorts on the mat a few times. Didn’t mean the guy was gay or getting turned on by being pummeled, it was just one of those mysterious natural reactions like morning wood. But Frank was driving his hips against Tommy’s jeans now, almost growling as they kissed, and Tommy thrust a hand out to _feel_ that hard, insistent length of him under thin, shiny black fabric. Frank moaned low, right in the back of his throat as Tommy palmed him, eyes fluttering closed. Sometimes he’d spend round after round trying to find a way inside a fighter’s defenses. Frank just opened up and let him come right in. 

Tommy dropped his bag from his shoulder and followed it to the ground, hands bracing Frank’s hips as he nuzzled and wetly kissed that rock-hard boner through Frank’s shorts. “Oh fuck,” Frank was saying, a dazed whisper. “Oh fuck Tommy.”

Most guys, Tommy had decided during high school sports and boot camp, looked pretty damn ridiculous naked. Frank Campana, even with his shorts around his ankles, looked like some fuckin’ marble statue, some Roman god with perfect musculature and a truly terrible haircut.

Tommy looked up at him, lips pressed to the very tip of his dick. Frank looked down. “Jesus… You wanna use a condom?”

“You’re clean, aren’t you?”

“The amount of bleeding people do over me, I get tested every ten minutes, but…”

He could see why Brendan and Frank got along so well. So good, so responsible, always looking out for everyone else. Tommy just rolled his eyes and swallowed Frank down. No matter that Frank was on his feet, or that his fingers curled tightly in Tommy’s hair, or that, toward the end, he just couldn’t help fucking Tommy’s mouth as hard as Tommy would let him - it was always very clear who was in control.

The moment Tommy let Frank slip out of his mouth and released his hips - haloed by ten vivid red fingerprints that might be blue by morning – Frank crashed down onto the floor, splayed out like a snow angel. “Oh god,” he moaned, one hand going to his saliva-thick dick, and laughed breathlessly. “Jesus.”

Tommy sat back on his heels, licking the taste of Frank out of his mouth and touching a contemplative hand to his own erection. The next step was never, ever simple.

Frank raised his head just enough to look at him. “My apartment’s upstairs… You know, if Brendan’s not expecting you.”

“Brendan can go fuck himself.” Tommy popped up onto his feet and reached down to pull Frank up. “What the fuck was he thinking, trying to set me up with you?”

“I know, Jesus.” Frank pulled up his shorts and grinned, leaning in for another kiss with one hand down low, massaging the aching hardness in Tommy’s pants. “How about we take round two in an actual bed? That is, if you can even walk with that horse cock of yours.”

Tommy pulled back from the kiss. “Oh, fuck you too.”

But, as Frank laughed and set off barefoot toward the elevators, he shouldered his bag and hurried to catch up.

By six thirty, when Brendan showed up with his kit bag for a workout before the school day began, Tommy had already fought his way through a third of the junk room, and was now stripped to the waist, considering donning a biohazard suit before he tackled the rest of it.

“You didn’t come home last night,” Brendan said, arms crossed at the sight of the stacked boxes, broken equipment, and many things not even Frank could quite identify. A smile threatened to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Get an early start?”

Tommy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving an oily smear. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Jesus Christ, what is that stink?” Frank wandered over with two steaming cardboard coffee cups from the not-Starbucks on the corner. “And I don’t mean your cologne, Brendan. Why don’t you take a break, Tom? I’ll get a couple of the kids to go get bleach and more trash bags. I’m beginning to think someone’s been stashing bodies in here.”

“I’m good.” But he did take one of the cups, nodding his thanks.

“I mean it.” Frank laid a hand on his shoulder. “Go take a shower. There’s a young kid coming in soon, got some serious speed in the ring. Think you can take him a couple of rounds without mashing his face in? Then I promise you can do all the cleaning you want.”

Tommy thought about it, and thought even more about Frank’s hand, and how Brendan was looking at it. He nodded. “Okay.” Wiping his brow once more, he turned to go toward the locker room, caught Frank’s jaw between sweaty fingers, and kissed him: one, good, indisputable kiss before walking off.

“Jesus fuck Conlon!” He could almost sense the middle finger Frank was giving him while he walked away, but there was laughter in Frank’s voice too. “And what’re you looking at, Brendan? C’mon. Move or die – I mean it this time!”

Tommy spun on his heel just in time to see Frank give his brother a hefty smack on the butt as Brendan hauled ass. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, catching Frank’s eye. This could be good, he thought. No pressure, no competition, nothing to prove. Just good hard work among friends and family, and one friend who might soon become something like family.

Just as long as he remembered to breathe.

He ducked into the locker room and went to take a shower.


End file.
